


Morning Refuge

by herrcolonel (presidentwarden)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/F, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Mornings, Shower Sex, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 12:17:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3569351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/herrcolonel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Johanna finally earns the privilege to spend the night in the D13 presidential quarters, she slowly starts to explore the possibility of what can be done in the mornings, when they're both in no great hurry. </p><p>Fortunately, Alma's patience with her is nearly limitless.</p><p>- - -</p><p>“I’ve had some new settings installed in my shower.” It’s a quiet concession to Johanna’s troubles, and a thoughtful one. “More of a gentle mist, and less of a downpour. Do you think you could tolerate that?”</p><p>“As long as it’s warm.” Johanna pauses, then shrugs her shoulders and lets the towel fall. If she had a stronger instinct to avoid repeating past traumas, she’d decline, but there’s a substantial difference between Capitol torture and a shower shared with her partner. Alma’s already leaning over to take care of adjusting the settings, a technically sophisticated little control pad mounted on the wall; Johanna contributes by stroking a hand over her lower back, watching the tiny shiver that results.</p><p>“So, lady.” Her voice is low and crooning, its usual spiteful edge lessened. “What do you wanna do in the shower?”</p><p>Alma turns to face her. “I thought we might bathe.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Refuge

It’s early. Daylight, or at least a simulation of it, is filtering through an artificial skylight, artfully embedded by D13’s engineers into the ceiling to alleviate the symptoms of living underground so long. It corresponds roughly with the sunrise outside, but it’s optimized for a proper eight hours of sleep per night, no more, no less.

Johanna and Alma have gotten about half of that.

After the brief and restless night, Johanna’s been lying awake, gaze shifting over the dim room and the shadows that lurk in the corners. Alma sleeps delicately, hands folded and knees drawn up, a small bundle wrapped in blankets for warmth; Johanna is more inclined to sprawl out sideways over the whole bed, and to hog the sheets, but for both their comfort, she does neither. Mostly she just sits still and thinks and holds her partner, arms clasped around Alma’s waist, face pressed between her shoulderblades.

But now Alma is stirring from the sleep, emerging from under the covers and stretching in a long languid motion, sitting up and reaching out in front of her and unfolding herself from the blanket cocoon. She yawns, blinks and rubs her eyes, and is greeted by Johanna’s pertinent comment.

“I gotta say, I like you better this way.”

“Thank you.” Self-consciously, she pushes a lock of fine strands away from her face. Her hair falls loosely at her shoulders in waves of spun silver, asymmetrical and perfect. “And good morning to you too.” Alma exhales softly and rests back against the pillows, aware of Johanna occupying the bed’s empty space beside her, cross-legged and smirking. Some sleep is better than none, but her focus still is lacking. “Better than what?”

“Well, the makeup test for the propo yesterday. That’s one thing.” Johanna’s already decided she’ll be relying heavily on caffeine today. She conceals a yawn of her own with a hand over her mouth, then flops forward to lie lengthwise across the mattress, cozying up to Alma. One arm finds its way to rest across her torso, a gentle but unmistakable grasp. With the other, she props up her chin in her hand, elbow digging into the mattress. “You’re prettier without it. Lipstick especially. The more they just leave you alone, the better.”

Alma eyes Johanna with a critical gaze. Johanna herself is makeup-free by choice, likelier to conceal a switchblade in a lipstick tube than to ever consider wearing the real thing. Dark circles around her eyes add emphasis, and her short tousled hair has a certain panache, but it’s more than clear that no makeup team has touched Johanna in weeks. “Thank you for saying so, my dear, but they clearly think it’s necessary. For the camera, they say, so I don’t look…” She thinks back to Castor’s comments, well-intentioned as they were. “Washed-out and ghostlike.”

“Whatever. You’ll be the prettiest ghost they ever saw.” Johanna laughs, and sits up a little more, just observing. They’ve both slept in their clothes, more or less - Johanna in a loose t-shirt and shorts, and Alma in one of those thin knit gray button-up shirts she wears and a small pair of underwear, leaving her legs bare.

There are many reasons Johanna’s been restless tonight.

Making a move would have required a certain boldness that Johanna did not possess at 3 AM. But now, when Alma’s more well-rested and her typical attitude has returned -- currently represented by an arched eyebrow and a barely noticeable smirk -- Johanna ventures further, deftly avoiding stumbling over her words. “You know, I’m luckier than the rest of ‘em. I get to see a side of you nobody else even knows about.”

Alma attempts to avoid sounding like she’s conducting an interrogation, but her curiosity is getting the best of her. This, if not a clumsy seduction attempt, is close to it. She tilts her head at a slight angle. “And what side would that be?”

“Whatever side of you’s willing to share a bed with me--” And Johanna tugs at the covers a little, sliding them down to Alma’s hips. Her shirt has ridden up in the night, revealing bare skin. “Like this.”

Alma’s quick to defend herself. They both threw off their clothes and crawled into bed at the small hours of the morning, with little thought for modesty or consequence. Acknowledging that level of unspoken intimacy, though, would be too blunt. “What about it? It gets very warm in here at night.”

“Suuure it does.” Johanna lets out a little snort of laughter. She sits up fully again, pushing the covers far back just enough to awkwardly clamber on top of her partner and straddle her waist. Alma looks slightly displeased for an instant, but doesn’t push her away, and they adjust to one another soon enough, bodies comfortably pressed together in the small, austerely furnished bed.

Alma twists a strand of smooth grey hair around her finger and straightens it out again, watching Johanna keenly through golden-grey eyes. Unlike Johanna, whose breath is shaky, Alma is composed, steely and unflinching even in her state of slight disarray. “Were you hoping to achieve something by this?”

“What, you gonna interview me so you can plan ahead?” Johanna’s tone is a touch spiteful, but secretly delighted. The sharper Alma’s wit gets, the more progress she’s making. “That’s not how this works. Didn’t you want me to tell you how nice you look right now?”

She’s artfully aloof. “If you have nothing better to do.”

“Oh, I got _lots_ better to do.” Johanna gnaws on her lower lip, mouth tugging up into a grin. “But I’m pretty sure if I tried it, you’d kick me out of the bed.”

“Why don’t you give it a try regardless?”

“Because I want to be invited back sometime.”

“It could hardly be that bad.” Alma makes direct eye contact with her, more an invitation than a stare-down, though the effect is equally petrifying. Johanna sputters in internal conflict for a moment, then reaches for the collar of Alma’s shirt and starts unbuttoning hesitantly, one at a time. After the second button, Alma relaxes and releases eye contact, laying back against the pillow. “Is that all?”

Johanna freezes. This isn’t the predicted reaction; although in any other context she’d barge right ahead and rip off the shirt, she has a feeling that Alma won’t respond positively to that. Then she makes a quick decision to follow her instinct, that great and wise judge that has misled Johanna into so many of her predicaments, and pauses, stroking the defined line of Alma’s collarbone and letting her hand rest on her shoulder. She leans down, steals a quick clumsy kiss, and is rewarded with a touch to her hair and a firm grasp on her T-shirt collar.

Alma has the upper hand again, in dynamic if not in fact. She holds Johanna in the kiss for as long as she likes, effectively keeping her frozen until the two finally separate. Johanna sits dumbly for a moment, then sits back, wiping her mouth and wearing a broad grin. “See, that’s the kinda thing I can’t do if the makeup team gets to you before I do. We gotta enjoy these mornings together.”

“I’m not certain you slept enough.” Alma’s protective instincts flare up for just an instant until she reminds herself not to worry. Johanna can handle herself. That’s part of what makes her deserve these opportunities. She adjusts herself and lies back on the mattress, picturesque and beautiful. “Regardless, go ahead. I’m starting to enjoy them, too.”

It seems a shame to disrupt something so perfect, but Johanna’s always been good at disruptions. She unfastens from the bottom up this time until the knit shirt is held shut by just a few buttons across Alma’s breasts, the thin fabric clinging to her form and flattering her slim shoulders. Then she sits back, biting her lip. Much as she wants to complete the job, there’s something unspeakably wonderful about the power of suggestion.

This is more self-restraint than Alma has been expecting. She doesn’t make a move, just watches Johanna watch her, the two women studying each other quizzically through narrowed eyes - one with genuine confusion, the other with a wicked grin.

“Eh, fuck it." Johanna reaches down and tugs off her own t-shirt, stripping from the waist up, and sends it flying off into the corner of the room, several feet away from the laundry hamper. She has a slim boyish figure, muscular and flat-chested, but she doesn’t dwell on her own nakedness for long before sitting forward and lying down atop her lover, skin to skin with the soft knit fabric that conceals whatever remains of Alma’s modesty.

A touch of self-consciousness has started to tinge Alma’s cheeks, illustrating her relative unfamiliarity with situations like this. Automatically she reaches out to put a hand on Johanna’s shoulders, offering reassurance while steadying her own self, but Johanna needs no consolation. For a few seconds she gets comfortable, then reaches between them and undoes the final few buttons of Alma’s shirt, wearing a triumphant little smirk that’s borne from the confidence she previously lacked. She doesn’t quite dare sit up and look, because she can feel the sudden awkward stiffness in Alma’s touch, but she revels in the feeling of soft warm bare skin against her own. A second of throat-clearing gives way to a murmured comment, whispered straight in Alma’s ear from where Johanna’s laid her head back on the pillow. “This is nice.”

“I have to agree.” Alma has a compulsive tendency to avoid undressing in front of others, but this isn’t quite the same; she’s not subjecting herself to scrutiny, just enjoying a sleepy morning together in bed with her lover, where the presence of clothing matters substantially less. She decides to give in completely, and wraps her arms around Johanna, tangling their legs together too for good measure and taking advantage of her solid warmth.

After all, it _is_ cold in here in the mornings.

But nothing is perfect. “You’ll need to excuse me.” Alma closes her eyes to shut out the artificial daylight, which still shines down dimly, bathing them both in a soft glow that can’t be ignored. “I need some more sleep if I intend to be useful today.”

“Same here.” Johanna’s drifting in and out of consciousness already, eyes half shut, tousled hair framing her face in clumps and strands. She clings to Alma, but loosely, gentle and cautious as she grasps her petite frame. “God, I’m useless. Got my woman half-naked in bed with me and I can’t even stay awake to make the most of it.”

“Don’t worry.” At last, Alma ventures a hint of cooperation, a weary but beautiful smile playing across her face. “I’m sure there’ll be time later today for it.”

There is. They wake and sleep in shifts -- Alma lying still in the bed, peacefully angelic, and Johanna on top of her, twitching in her dreams and snoring softly. When Alma has had enough she nudges Johanna’s shoulder, and the girl awakens with a start, gasping for breath and swearing forcefully. Calloused hands grasp onto Alma’s shoulders again, Johanna’s strength evident in the tensed muscles of her forearms. She catches her breath with some difficulty, uneven bangs falling into her eyes. “Whatsamatter?”

Alma had been expecting none of this. It’s easy to forget Johanna’s complex of issues, but she’s always close to panic these days, especially after failing the test to join the 451 squad on the field. Secretly, Alma is relieved at the outcome; she’s built up such a bond with Johanna that she despises the thought of sending her back out into true combat. But it’s a blow to the girl’s pride to have been forced to admit her weakness, soaked to the skin and flattened by a panic attack in the middle of the makeshift training ground. And Alma would never take pleasure in Johanna’s defeat.

So they have both accepted the situation as it is. Johanna’s inner struggle shows through sometimes, though, like now, where it takes her several shallow breaths to return to equilibrium and collapse again, pressed close to her lover with a curse dying on her lips. Before Alma can respond, Johanna preemptively reassures her, reaching for one of her hands and clasping it close, intertwining with thin fingers. “I’m good. What time is it?”

Alma shifts herself on the bed and reaches for her communicuff, leaning over to pick the little device up off a small tray, and clasps it around her wrist. It beeps at her cheerfully, marking the time: almost 9. She mutes it with a tap on its screen, ignoring the list of missed calls. Those can be dealt with later. For now, Johanna awaits. “It’s still early.”

“Good enough for me.” Feeling a light prod to her ribs, Johanna rises up, settling into a Sphinxlike pose: forearms on either side of the pillow, stretching out her shoulders and her lower back. She has a toothy grin as well now, watching Alma’s struggle with the infernal little device that dictates her daily schedule. As president, she’s exempt from the ink arm-stamping, so both forearms are smooth and pale, visible now as she holds Johanna tight.

Johanna’s grin widens, and with slight effort she draws up her knees and shifts her weight back, pulling Alma up with her into a sitting pose. The gray shirt falls away from her shoulders as the president moves with Johanna, revealing shapely arms and pert breasts and a slim waist.

Johanna stares, and leaves a bit of space between them, simply appreciating.

“Do you have to?” Nevertheless, Alma basks in the attention, biting her lip ever so gently, gaze downcast and hair falling loosely around her shoulders. It isn’t quite long enough to conceal anything important, leaving her chest bare, but she fidgets with the silvery strands regardless, fingers combing instinctively through the ends. Johanna’s hand closes around Alma’s wrist, disrupting the action, but she receives a softly spoken reprimand for it. “Be patient.”

“Sorry, babe.” Johanna isn’t at all bothered by her own nudity; she’s peculiarly detached from her body, viewing it as a tool to serve her needs and little more. She doesn’t care who looks, or when. Half the population’s got the same assets, why should hers matter? But it’s clear Alma doesn’t share that attitude. Johanna keeps a safe distance, hands resting on her partner’s trim waist, and inspects the wall instead.

The touch of a hand to her cheek brings her gaze back. By the time she dares to catch another glimpse, Alma’s buttoning her shirt back up, just far enough for a semblance of modesty. The knit fabric clings to her, though, and leaves little to the imagination. Now Alma’s more than content to let Johanna look for as long as she likes, calm and collected with a hint of a smirk, hands folded in her lap.

The effect is powerful. Johanna gets her fill, then makes eye contact again, delivering a look with raised eyebrows and a wicked grin. “Lucky me.”

“Lucky you, yes.” Alma won’t even attempt to deny it. In private, the charade of polite self-deprecation falls away. “But lucky me as well.” She reaches out, and her touch ghosts over Johanna’s throat and dips down to her chest, finishing with her hand on Johanna’s thigh. “We’re both very fortunate.”

“You’re telling me. God, you’re just _gorgeous._ ” Johanna shudders with delight, letting out a breath. She’s almost tempted to strip completely, just to see what happens, but she’s intimidated by the chance of failure. Even with her forceful personality, it’s taken her some time to learn not to wilt under Alma’s keen harsh gaze. Instead she pushes the covers back off the bed, untangling them both from the blankets, and swings her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet contacting the cold floor. “Let’s go get ready. We can take our time in the bathroom.”

“I imagine you’d like that.” Reluctantly, Alma follows suit, sliding gracefully out of the bed. There’s a small chest of drawers beside the bed, and she reaches into it to fetch underwear and a folded jumpsuit, tailored to just her size. Johanna is more resourceful: she rummages around in the laundry hamper until she finds yesterday’s jacket, pairs it with a few clothes fetched from a pile atop a shelf, and tucks the whole bundle under her arm, barging through the bathroom door before Alma has time to join her.

The presidential suite has the luxury of a private bathroom, and this isn’t the first time they’ve made the most of it. Johanna starts stripping immediately, shedding her shorts and loosely tying a towel around her waist for the sake of sensitive eyes. Alma joins her and does the same, but more discreetly, unbuttoning and sliding the shirt off her shoulders. The result is pleasing, and Johanna watches her with outright delight. “If I liked water, I’d join you.”

“I’ve had some new settings installed in my shower.” It’s a quiet concession to Johanna’s troubles, and a thoughtful one. “More of a gentle mist, and less of a downpour. Do you think you could tolerate that?”

“As long as it’s warm.” Johanna pauses, then shrugs her shoulders and lets the towel fall. If she had a stronger instinct to avoid repeating past traumas, she’d decline, but there’s a substantial difference between Capitol torture and a shower shared with her partner. Alma’s already leaning over to take care of adjusting the settings, a technically sophisticated little control pad mounted on the wall; Johanna contributes by stroking a hand over her lower back, watching the tiny shiver that results.

“So, lady.” Her voice is low and crooning, its usual spiteful edge lessened. “What do you wanna do in the shower?”

Alma turns to face her. “I thought we might bathe.”

“Good idea. Very sexy.” Johanna bends over to inspect the selection of soaps and shampoos that rest in a small bucket on the tile floor. They’re all in drab, plainly labeled bottles, and apparently, all customized for gray hair. She groans under her breath. “Got anything for guests?”

“I don’t have guests here.” Alma looks offended at the thought, standing with her arms self-consciously folded over her chest. “Other than you, but you’re a clear exception. Might I add, it won’t kill you to use my shampoo for one day.”

“I’m gonna have to take your word for that.” The shower has no shelves, which, Johanna realizes, is the reason for the bucket. At least it’s a step up from the communal shower that most District 13 residents have to share, one per corridor, six living pods for every bathroom. Johanna’s gotten much too used to that system, much to her distaste. She’d love to re-adapt to the luxury of private bathing.

Especially when it involves Alma Coin.

The president herself currently is just standing still, waiting and watching. In the bathroom’s harsh fluorescent light, her skin takes on a slightly cool tint, hiding no flaws. Long eyelashes flutter as she casts a critical gaze over Johanna, who pauses, caught under her scrutiny.

Johanna slowly stands up, and then edges towards her, hands behind her back. With both women undressed and on even ground, Johanna has a height advantage of a mere few inches, but the poise with which Alma holds herself makes the difference barely noticeable. Rather than reach out for a first touch, Johanna presses herself up against Alma and lets the heat of their bodies mix, skin to skin. Then her hands clamp down on the president’s bony shoulders and she’s kissing desperately, breathless and eager, almost vicious in her yearning.

Tentatively, Alma reciprocates. Johanna is trying some trick with her tongue now, and Alma’s lips part a little to comply, but her lover’s hold on her shoulders is slightly too strong for comfort. She debates her options and then returns the favor with unforeseen strength, grasping hold of Johanna’s waist with one hand and a handful of her short hair with the other. After a moment of stillness, she tugs, tilting Johanna’s head back ever so slightly.

 _“Now_ we’re getting somewhere.” Johanna comes up for air just enough to blurt out a quick remark, wild fervor in her eyes. Alma is gentler in her touch and her kisses, but her facade of softness conceals a dangerous intensity that manifests in the tension of her grip. Fingernails cut short, her strong cold fingers dig into the flesh of Johanna’s hip, and for an instant, Johanna feels a jolt of delicious panic.

“Yes, we are.” Alma breathes out against Johanna’s lips, warm grey eyes shining bright. Feeling the burn of her stare, Johanna breaks the eye contact for a split second, letting her gaze travel down to where their bodies meet, Alma’s small perky breasts resting against Johanna’s flat chest. In all respects, Alma is built like more of a woman - wider hips, a slightly more full figure -- compared to Johanna, whose lithe boyishness is only lessened by her sweet, ladylike voice and shapely face. Neither is close to the ideal of voluptuous femininity, but to each other they are perfection.

Johanna shifts her stance, one of her legs pressed gently between Alma’s thighs, and gets a hiss of breath and a vengefully fierce kiss for it, teeth closing around her lower lip. “And what do you think you’re doing?”

“Planning to take off your panties, but I’m getting the feeling I’ll be killed if I try.” Johanna swallows hard, focusing on nothing at all. She can’t help but let out a sarcastic little laugh, finally turning back to meet Alma’s unrelenting gaze. “That’s not how I was planning to go out. It’d be a fun exit, sure, but I wanna live to do this again.”

“Don’t worry, darling. The only way you’ll die today is if you rip them off of me.” Alma frees her hand from Johanna’s tousled hair and traces a cold finger along the narrow curve of the younger woman’s jaw, feeling the rise and fall of her throat as she swallows again. She leans forward, whispers in her ear. “I have meetings in an hour. Please be considerate of that. Otherwise, go ahead. I’ll allow whatever you wish.”

“Oh, good.” Johanna’s hands slide downward, tracing across the flat planes of her shoulderblades and the ridges of her spine, and Alma gives a soft little shiver in response, pressing herself closer. Finally Johanna opens her mouth again to break the silence. “Maybe we can do something sexy, like wash each other’s hair with that gray-color shampoo of yours. What is that, the senior citizen brand?”

Alma pulls away, immediately mortified, and gives Johanna a stare to rival Medusa. “Excuse me. I started going grey at twenty-five.”

Johanna cackles with sudden laughter, but recovers quickly. “Good. It looks fantastic on you.” She pursues her with relentless kisses until Alma’s stern stare softens into amused compliance. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it. Believe me, you’re flawless. Prettiest woman in the entire district.”

“Don’t flatter me.” Alma is unimpressed, but drapes her arms over Johanna’s shoulders anyway. “There’s no way to know that for certain.”

“Sure there is. Don’t you trust my opinion?” Johanna licks her lips and hooks a finger in the waistband of Alma’s underwear, tugging down slowly. Meeting no resistance, she continues, pushing them down off her thighs and letting the garment fall to the floor. “You know, I’m a pretty great judge of good looks.”  

Daintily, Alma steps out of the pair, nudging them aside with the toe of her foot. Otherwise she doesn’t move, and waits for further cues from Johanna. “Yes, I trust you. We wouldn’t have come this far if I didn’t.”

“Good point.” Johanna lets out a breath, a little bit more shaky than she’d intended, and makes short work of her own underwear, yanking them off without even looking and flinging them into the corner of the room. She’s almost too self-conscious to glance directly at Alma, aware that she is being judged, and will be judged further for looking.

But she does anyway. It’s not much different from seeing Alma in the pair of thin underwear from before; her skin is pale and smooth, preserving the overall look that has led some to compare the president to a statue sculpted from stone. When nude, the effect is intensified, but Johanna’s thoughts aren’t exactly on the art history path.

Alma seems to be looking, too, but politely, with peripheral vision. Johanna regains her confidence and glances back upward, asserting her own appeal and putting her hands on her hips to show off. “Like what you see?”

“Of course.” Alma reaches into the shower to turn on the faucet, coaxing out a spray of cold water that makes her flinch for an instant before she twists a few shower knobs to transform it into warm mist. Once it’s settled and has begun to heat up, raising the room’s temperature ever so slightly, she turns gracefully back towards Johanna, who has been diligently staring at her ass. “Are you certain you’ll be alright with the shower?”

“Lady, I’d probably join you in a cold bath at this point.” Johanna bites her lip. “Get in there.”

“If you insist.” Alma pivots gracefully and steps into the spray, pulling the shower curtain aside to welcome her companion. The water dampens her shoulders and wets her hair, clinging in ropy strands to her shoulderblades. Water droplets trailing down slim arms, her body glistening and sleek, she turns and offers a hand and beckons to Johanna.

Johanna’s mouth curls upward in a sharp grin, ravishing her with a quick flick of her gaze.

At once she obeys.

Trotting forward across the cold tile to join Alma, she instinctively ducks as the first mist of water hits, but the unpleasantness is only fleeting. Johanna runs her hands through her wet hair, letting the heat soak to her scalp, thankful for her new situation. No Peacekeepers, no cold water, no electricity. Only warm water and a hot woman.

She stands triumphantly under the mist, feet apart, hands at her sides, as the water streams down to pool around her feet. It’s a defiant pose, victorious over her own demons that’ve plagued her since her latest Capitol days, and she’s silhouetted against the shower wall in a haze of warm steam. Alma is standing back, exhibiting remarkable restraint, but out of the corner of her eye she sneaks a peek at Johanna’s lithe form, and clears her throat softly, almost expectantly -- to which Johanna’s hands come to rest on her hips, arching her back a little and hiding nothing. “C’mon. Touch. I know you want to.”

“Perhaps.” Alma reaches out with caution, wet fingers tracing an idle pattern across Johanna’s sharp collarbone and running down the precise center of her chest before darting away again, touch departing from Johanna’s skin. Her arms come to fold across her chest, not quite enough to conceal herself; a hint of embarrassment has overcome her. She lifts her chin a little, defiant, and meets Johanna’s eyes, leaving a space between them filled with silence.

Johanna won’t stand for this. She pushes herself forward, moving into the corner of the shower to pin Alma there. They face off, Alma with her back pressed against the cool tile wall as a delicious shudder slithers up her spine, and Johanna dangerously close, spiky short hair sticking up in wet strands. Her hands close around Alma’s shoulders and then move down until she’s cupping her full breasts in wet palms, giving a squeeze that makes her squirm.

Johanna wears a look of clear, lecherous delight, eyes half-closed and a lazy grin on her face. “Now _you_ touch me how you want.”

Alma’s already risen to the challenge. One hand coming to rest on Johanna’s slender waist, the other runs gently down her chest, tentatively feeling her small breasts. Alma flushes delicately pink a split second later, bowing her head to let her long hair hide her face in profile. “This is more difficult than I expected.”

“Oh yeah?” Johanna lets go with one hand, touching Alma’s chin with it instead to tilt her head up for an unexpected but not unwelcome kiss. “First times are tough. Wouldn’t have expected you to be the shy type, though, all things considered.”

“I’m not shy.” Alma resents this. Her jaw clenches for a split second, eyes narrowed beneath long eyelashes. She feels the shame that’s heating her up from within, forcing her to resort to restraint. “I’m inexperienced, and a bit uncomfortable. I’ve done nothing like this before.”

“Babe, you don’t have to feel guilty for it.” Johanna has encountered this phenomenon before with a few ex-girlfriends of similar personality traits. Much as she hates to admit it, she has a type; there’s something delightful about reducing an uptight older woman to… actually, best not to think about that when Alma is staring her down. She leans in, whispering in her ear in a low raspy tone as Alma’s fingers dig into her waist. “Do whatever you want. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“No, we don’t, but I see what you mean.” Alma straightens up, pushing her hair out of her face in one elegant motion, and guides Johanna back towards the center of the shower, accepting the wandering hands that roam from shoulders to breasts again and linger there much too long. She tolerates Johanna’s transfixed silence for a short while, then breaks away and reaches for the soap, plucking a small bar off a shelf just outside the shower. “You’ll need to refrain from touching me for a minute.”

“Gimme.” Johanna snatches the bar from her before Alma can intervene, rubbing it between her palms to lather her hands and then following the same exact pattern as before, highly focused on certain aspects of her figure. “We can do both.”

“No.” Alma reclaims the soap, mildly offended, and keeps Johanna at arm’s length long enough to use it properly and then let the warm mist rinse her clean. Johanna waits the entire time with her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently, which brings a firm stare from Alma, leveled directly at her. “Forgive me for using a shower to get clean.”

“You’re forgiven.” Johanna is as cheeky as ever; when Alma tosses the soap at her in retaliation, she catches it easily and lathers up, cleaning the vital areas and letting the water do the rest. Replacing the soap carelessly on the shelf, she basks under the warmth of the mist, allowing the droplets to caress her nude form in a way no cold shower will ever accomplish. “I could get used to this.”

Alma gently taps her on the shoulder, drawing her close again with arms wrapped fully around Johanna’s waist. Some of her shame has started to disappear. “You’d better.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Johanna locks lips with her again, just for the pleasure of stealing a kiss at an unexpected moment, and finally lets her touch migrate to new, unexplored areas, caressing the curve of her ass. Alma stiffens in her arms and she lets go, retreating to safer territory -- the woman’s hipbones are strikingly prominent, and Johanna’s fingers trace the firm ridges a few times, receiving no negative reaction for it.

“Interpret it however you please.” Alma hasn’t even gotten around to washing her hair yet; in showers, she looks a bit like a waterlogged nymph, delicate features exaggerated by the dewy moisture that clings to her, long hair falling free around slim shoulders. But her penetrating gaze grounds her firmly in the reality of stern humanity, and when she catches Johanna with it for a split second, both women share a knowing smirk.

“You know, for such a decisive president, you’re really unclear about what you want.” Johanna practically croons in her ear, pushing back the locks of hair on one side to kiss roughly along her jaw and neck. “I’m going to try something.” One hand wanders down dangerously far, teasing and probing at sensitive areas between her legs, and before Alma retaliates with a gentle shove to the ribs, Johanna coaxes a soft, moaning gasp from her, feeling a spasm of pleasure coursing through her slim frame.

When they’ve separated again, Alma takes a moment to collect herself. There’s danger in her eyes, a warm golden hue again in this light, and she wets her lips with the tip of her tongue before speaking. “You know that was a risk.”

“I sure do.”

“And yet you’re fearless.”

“Wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t.” Johanna dismisses this line of questioning with a flippant shrug and a smirk, but drops both these acts a second later, preferring instead to answer Alma’s concerns in earnest. “If you don’t like what I’m doing, I’ll pay for it and get my ass kicked. If you _do_ , I get the--” She ponders her next word. “--the honor of making you mine.” Johanna bites her lower lip and rakes her gaze over Alma from head to toe, leaving no doubt about her meaning.  

Alma takes a second to decide. “I can accept that.” She’s held onto her chastity long enough that it would be downright foolish to preserve it instead of welcoming a lover she _truly_ wants. Arms open, she welcomes Johanna back to her again, giving an appreciative little smirk as their bodies fit together once more. “Have your fun, but don’t take too long.”

“I’m not going to do _that_ much. Just tease, and discover.” Johanna’s hands roam over the president’s ribs, caressing her lean sides and traveling back up again to massage her breasts, slick with soapy water. Alma purses her lips and narrows her eyes, an expression that would deter anyone else, but Johanna is starting to learn better. She touches to her heart’s content, and has her fill of lust, while Alma’s touch roams sporadically over her, often unexpected and always wonderful. There’s something about her cold fingers, no matter where, that brings Johanna to the point of shuddering in pleasure, a mixture of delight and slight fear. Alma, at her core, is formidable, yet refined, an immensely effective combination.

Inevitably, Johanna’s own fingers work their way down back to the same place as before, which makes Alma abandon her dignity for a brief moment and turn outright pink with shame and enjoyment, back arching and hips thrust forward. Johanna’s touch is always light and caressing, never too forceful or vulgar; she doesn’t even dare probe deeper and bring them both to the next level of intimacy, since for now, rubbing and teasing is clearly more than enough. Alma’s body is tense, and she rests her chin on Johanna’s shoulder, holding her with unexpected strength and muting her own noises with teeth sunk deep into her lower lip. This earns her a nudge in the ribs from Johanna with her free hand. “I want to hear you.”

Alma’s voice is barely audible. She rocks her hips forward gently, pressing against Johanna’s fingers, body straining with tension. “No. I refuse.”

“Doesn’t work like that.” Johanna whispers to her, a loving threat under her breath. “You want me to keep rubbing your clit, you have to moan for me.”

Alma reddens further at that one, looking away. “ _Must_ you?”

“What, you don’t like using the real word for it?” Her tone is sweet and teasing, taking full advantage of Alma’s clear embarrassment. “Or did you mean you want me to stop?”

“If you stop, I’m kicking you out of the shower.” Alma grabs onto Johanna’s upper arm, just looking for something to wrap her fingers around as a particularly strong wave of pleasure hits her. Try as she might, a soft moan slips out, face buried in the crook of Johanna’s neck. _“Oh.”_

“See, it’s good.” Johanna’s hand strokes down her lower back, a reassuring touch to balance out the intensity happening elsewhere. Alma’s right in the middle of the shower and caught amid the mist downpour, absolutely radiant with wet smooth skin and dripping silver hair, and when Johanna touches just the right spot, her legs tremble a little, body quivering. When she moans again, it’s a hard curse breathed against Johanna’s flesh.

After coaxing her to the brink, Johanna holds Alma tight as she rides out the waves of climax, futilely attempting to speak amidst gasps and breathy moans with her fingers digging deep into her lover’s shoulders. She’s not always open to new experiences, but _this_ has been delightfully shameful, surrendering to Johanna’s practiced touch and letting herself be reduced to this weakened state. Naturally, the first words out of her mouth, when she can form a sentence again, are a wry protest. “I would have appreciated a warning.”

“What, haven’t you ever gotten yourself off?” Johanna poses the question frankly, seeking a genuine reply, and the _look_ she receives in return is enough of an answer. _“Wow.”_

“I never felt the need.”

“Lady, you are something else.” Johanna lifts an eyebrow at her, sizing her up again. Alma already looks more relaxed, a bit of the tension gone from her posture as she stands expectantly and waits. Now that the whole experience is finished, it already feels strange to contemplate what’s happened, but Johanna is merely glad to know that Alma has enjoyed herself. “You feel good?”

“Yes.” Alma answers shortly, and it’s a mere few seconds before she fetches the bottle of shampoo from the supply outside the shower, dispensing a bit of the liquid into her palm. In a few quick motions, she lathers up her hair and tilts her head back, allowing the warm water to run down her scalp and neck and back. Johanna just stands by to watch the sight, admiring, silently drinking in the beauty of Alma’s nude form.

When her hair is fully washed, the critical stare resumes without warning, catching Johanna off guard as she lounges against the shower wall. “Have you finished?”

“Not yet.” Time to fix that. Just as she’d earlier joked, Johanna uses a bit of the same hair product, figuring there’s worse options than gray-hair shampoo. It smells good, and it’s somehow soothing to finally have hair long enough to wash, tousling her fingers through the untidy dyed strands. She basks under the water for longer than she perhaps should, only retreating when Alma’s hands settle onto her hips from behind. This brings a sly grin to Johanna’s narrow face, turning to look. “Oh, hey you.”

“Hello there.” The grasp closes around Johanna’s waist, giving no hint of letting her go. “Have you been enjoying yourself?”

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been.” Johanna turns herself around in her grip, resuming the skin-to-skin contact with absolutely no shame. She shifts her weight a little, pressing her body up against Alma’s just to watch her blush, but this time, the president does no such thing. The only change is a small twitch of the corner of her mouth, grey eyes bright and focused upon her lover.

Nothing about Johanna goes unnoticed as Alma’s gaze sweeps the length of her body, admiring with a keen stare. “This was a good decision for both of us.”’

“I’ll say.” However, despite all other benefits to this shower, the heat is becoming oppressive. Johanna is the first to make a motion towards the faucet, switching off the mist, but with a touch to one stray lever, immerses them in a cloud of steam instead by accident. She flounders for a minute, and Alma fixes the problem with some swift button-pressing, quieting both sources of heat to leave them standing in an intimate embrace with only each other for warmth.

It’s a while before either makes a grab for the towels, but they do eventually, separating from one another with a reluctant sigh. Johanna dries off hastily and then tosses the swath of terrycloth aside, while Alma knots it politely around her waist, leaving her top bare so Johanna may continue to look. It’s an odd source of delight for Alma, to know she’s so desired, but she’s already acquiring a taste for it. She’s intentionally chaste and nonsexualized in all contexts, fearsome in her stern modesty, but for Johanna, and _only_ Johanna, she will allow more.

Alma crosses to the corner of the bathroom, fetches a washcloth to dry her hair, and tosses another to Johanna, who gives her hair a cursory touch with the cloth before daubing it with a handful of gel and turning the hair dryer on it. The result is unkempt, but pleasing. Naturally, Johanna feels the need to use the hair dryer on the rest of her body as well, enjoying the sensation of warm air against bare skin. Alma simply watches from afar. She’s seen stranger habits from Johanna by now.

When she’s done, Johanna unplugs the hair dryer and hands it to her partner, rather than the typical method of tossing it across the room that she might otherwise favor. It takes a certain level of companionship for Johanna to care about avoiding injuring others; Alma gets every consideration and care, but otherwise, wherever Johanna goes, destruction and havoc reign. She puts aside her chaotic tendencies long enough to offer to assist with the hair drying and straightening, but Alma declines. She’s finished within a few minutes, grey hair smooth and perfect. “But thank you for the offer, my dear.”

“I don’t blame you for saying no. Not like I know anything about it.” Johanna considers mentioning who _would,_ but this is not a conversation that should involve Effie for any reason. The two disagree deeply about hair, anyway. “Maybe I can help with other things.”

“Such as?” Alma reaches for her underwear, stepping lightly into the pair and tugging them up around her hips. “I’m fairly certain I can still dress myself.”

“Not real help. Symbolic help. An excuse to touch you some more.” But Johanna just observes a little too closely as Alma pulls her bra down over her head, a flimsy bit of grey fabric designed to be unobtrusive under the uniform. “Or I can watch. That’s good, too.”

“Mhm.” Alma has another of her button-up shirts at the ready, and murmurs assent while focusing on the task at hand, thin fabric clinging closely to her slim body as she shifts her shoulders to get comfortable in the garment. Socks come next, grey again (of course) and finely woven, a little bit longer than knee length. Johanna just stares until Alma’s figure is hidden by the shapeless jumpsuit, cinching the belt tight to give some definition to the outfit. “Haven’t you ever seen me dress in the morning before? You look so astonished.”

“Not after a shower. It’s different.” Johanna gestures, trying and failing to express her thoughts. She hasn’t made the slightest bit of progress in getting dressed, preferring instead to watch her lover for every moment she can. Alma is well worth the time. Finally she relents and retrieves her underwear, a pair of small shorts and an undershirt and some ordinary socks. The effect is much less glamorous than Alma’s choices, but Johanna is still aware that the president’s gaze has come to rest on her, admiring her with just as much appreciation as Johanna herself showed a minute ago. It’s satisfying.

She pulls on the pair of pants she’s found, a little too short but otherwise adequate for daily wear, and matches them with one of D13’s exercise-wear shirts, retrieved from the floor’s laundromat and smuggled into Alma’s room for one reason or another. The tight fabric flatters her muscular figure, and Johanna checks herself out in the mirror for a split second before pulling the leather jacket on over her shoulders, leaving it unbuttoned.

When they’ve both put on their respective footwear, their heights are equivalent again -- Johanna in lumberjack boots, Alma in the small utility boots with a hidden high heel that make her look slightly less petite. Johanna, predictably, takes advantage of this to give Alma another deep and enthusiastic kiss, fingers tangling in her newly straightened hair. For this, she doesn’t even receive a reprimand, just reciprocity and a soft peck on the lips.

The kiss finishes off with hands held tight, Alma willingly grasping Johanna’s hand properly with fingers intertwined, rather than the consoling hand-grab maneuver in which she’s had such practice. Johanna notices the difference, and prides herself on the privilege as she strides out of the bathroom with Alma in tow. “Are you gonna hold hands with me the whole way to the meeting?”

“Well, it would help us make a noticeable entrance.” Alma actually considers it for a minute, then laughs at herself for even entertaining the option. A second later, though, in a moment of weakness, she finds herself questioning why it’s a bad idea. A mental reprimand sets her back on track. Get it together, Alma. “We will arrive separately, and at different times. They mustn’t know.”

“I didn’t want to have to be the one to tell you, but I’m pretty sure everybody’s got a clue.”

Alma turns abruptly, alarmed. She’s not ultimately too concerned, but she likes to be in control of how information about herself is dispersed. “What? Why?”

“Probably the fact that I try to make out with you in the elevators every time.”

“I told you to stop that.”

“Afterwards, maybe. Not while I was doing it.”

“That doesn’t make it better.” But despite her momentary irritation, Alma politely holds the door for Johanna, ushering her errant girlfriend through and locking the apartment securely shut behind them. “I’ll see you in fifteen minutes. And, Johanna?”

She’s jogged halfway down the corridor by the time Alma calls her back, but pauses, a lean silhouette against gray walls. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

A ghost of a smile slips across Alma’s face before she strides away. “You know exactly what.”


End file.
